


Cold as Ice

by ruric



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Community: fic_promptly, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:41:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22531144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruric/pseuds/ruric
Summary: Posted in response to mirrored_illusions 2012 prompt: Buffy/Angel, he was cool against her warm skin.
Relationships: Angel/Buffy Summers
Kudos: 4
Collections: fic_promptly Fills 2012





	Cold as Ice

**Author's Note:**

> Posted in response to mirrored_illusions 2012 prompt: Buffy/Angel, he was cool against her warm skin.

As time passes, and it stops being quite so new, she finds it easier to trick herself into believing he’s alive.

His eyes dance with humor or sometimes glint with a feral rage - but she’s seen that in people too. He can move like a person, a person with incredible speed, but she can convince herself that’s just a special power. He’s never breathless, no matter how far he’s run, what fight he’s been in, but again she can wave that away. 

After all, she’s only sixteen, she’s fast and strong too – and can take the kind of physical punishment that would put most girls her age six feet underground.

He doesn’t look old. Well OK he doesn’t look _old_ old . When he’s recently fed and has a slight blush to his skin he could pass for mid 20s, if it’s been longer between his…meals…then maybe mid 30s. But still. Not old. Not his actual, you know, age.

It’s astonishing how much you can make yourself not care, _not_ question what’s right in front of your eyes, if you want to. She can look away from his vamp face, deny what’s there – it doesn’t have to be hard.

But where she comes up short is when he reaches for her, cool fingers lacing with hers as they walk along. When his fingers slide over her cheek, into her hair, his palm cupping he chin to tilt her head back for a kiss, the way his lips brush hers and there’s no warmth in them. But even then, even then, she can still misdirect her attention. She can lean into the strength of his body when they walk along hand in hand and feel protected and sheltered. She can lose herself in the want and need of his kisses and not think about the coolness of his lips.

But where she really crashes back into reality is at night, sprawled between passion wrinkled sheets – waking from a dream or nightmare – turning to seek warmth and comfort from another living and breathing body. But there’s only him, skin smooth the moonlight making him look like he’s been sculpted from marble. There’s no rise and fall of his chest, no warmth to his skin. 

Just him. A creature from folklore made incarnate.

Undead. 

Vampire.

In the smallest hours of the morning she’s really not sure what to do about that.


End file.
